Trompe l'oeil: Ubiquitous Gaze
by Intel Agents Quotient
Summary: In mid 19th century England, Frodo Baggins is an art critic by day and an art thief by night. When a mysterious request arrives, Frodo finds himself entangled in the rich web of mystery, art, and genius that is 19th century Europe. Are your eyes fooled?
1. Prologue

**DISCLAIMER: ALL CHARACTERS ARE PROPERTIES OF J.R.R. TOLKIEN

* * *

**

_The ground was as wet as it had always been beneath his feet, warm and soft from the rain. He watched mud accumulate on his left toe, the nail cracked and clipped short, and shuffles on. He steered clear of the cobblestone roads that snaked around the city, he had never liked the feel of the cold hard grained surface biting in to his soles. Not that he could feel the rough pits anymore, the tender flesh had long ago eroded into strips of hard leather, scaly and reptilian. _

_So he stuck to the side of the road, where the carts, with the rancid smell of meat left out for too long clatter, pulled along by weary merchants in starched shirts, white shirts stained with blood at the cuffs.  
_

_He followed the carts to the marketplace, hiding behind wooden wheels and and bent-nailed side boards. No one should notice him, there was never one too many beggar on the streets of Florence, nevertheless, there was no harm in precaution, not for him anyway. He slunk up to the food stalls, doubled over in an attempt to conceal himself. Flies buzzed above him over the sweet juices that oozed from the browned skin of ageing pears. _

_Food. _

_In two heartbeats he was off with the fruit clenched in his hand. He could feel it - the familiar pump of adrenaline through his legs, the unknown strength that cursed through his arms. He smelt the acid stench of the perspiration that dripped down him in beads and felt the chill of his wet threadbare shirt clinging to his ribs. Then he heard them. The sounds always came to him last, crawling and burrowing into his ears._

_Stinging._

_He tried to block them out, but the notes were persistent, as they always were. A cacophony of voices, whittled sharp from desperation, needled their way in, coated with acrimony. _

_Then the words came, formed from the invisible sounds, digging into his conscious, scratching into his mind._

"_...thief!" "...beggar!" "hoodlum!" "...the little..."_

_Finally, a shriek, hoarse and withered._

"_Catch him, the little freak!"_

_His insides burned; fire licked his hands, hot and red and hateful. But he did not look back, he could not look back, lest the tears spill from his eyes._

_Chunks of soft brown pear squeezed through his fingers, splattering over the cobblestones._


	2. The art critic and the Hobbit

Click. The door swung inwards, its rusted hinges creaking almost inaudibly as it opened, catching the luminous moonlight that trickled in through the curtained windows. Two figures, both cloaked in the drab grey-black of the curtains, slipped into the room, their slipper-ed feet making little noise. The taller of the two gestured at the corner of the room with a hand gloved like a gentleman's. The second figure gave an almost imperceptible nod-there was no need for words. With quick, efficient movements, he made his way to the corner of the room. At the taller gentleman's signal, the second man pushed the curtains back and pulled aside a cloth that covered an object in the corner. The cloth slid away with a soft hiss.

Bright moonlight shone through the window, surprisingly clean despite the soot and smoke of the London streets. Illuminated by the light was a painting.

The second figure let out a low whistle, "Why, what a thing of beauty, Mr. Frodo,"

It truly was. Under an evening sky filled with warm orange and violet clouds, grew a single lone tree with its leaves spread out in a canopy. A masterful hand had plucked out delicate blades of grass, a sea of yellow and green, wild and untamed beneath a dusk sky.

Frodo peered at the lower corner of the painting-there, carved out with a palette knife, was a distinct signature, bold and strong.

"There's no mistake, this is Gerontius's mark." Frodo murmured as he examined the painting once more, "This is a masterpiece Sam." He reached out, as if to touch the surface of the painting, then quickly dropped it by his side. "We should get going, you have the horses tethered?"

Sam nodded, "Of course, Mr. Frodo." Draping a silk cloth over the painting, he lifted the canvas and moved to the door. Frodo glanced about the room once more, listening for movement. Hearing none, he squeezed through the door, and with a casual flick of his hand, allowed a card to spiral down.

"Did you see today's headline? The stolen painting from Dulwich has been returned." A young man, clothed in a long overcoat, marched into the room, his hair wet with morning mist. Throwing a crumpled and moist newspaper onto the desk, he snatched a steaming mug from the counter top and collapsed on to the sofa. Sitting at the table across from him, another young man peered at the newspaper over his own coffee mug. 

"So, it's the Hobbit again?"

"Exactly, the famous Gerontius painting stolen a week ago was found this morning at the doorstep of the Dulwich picture gallery."

The second young man picked up the newspaper, his calloused fingertips running along the smudged ink lines. "It says here that 'Yet another painting has been retrieved from thieving hands, by none other than the art retriever himself 'the Hobbit'. This makes eleven retrievals by this "Hobbit" since the first one two years ago. This time, the painting is the famous masterpiece by Gerontius Took painted in-"

"They're calling him 'art retriever' now, Aragorn!" The young man stood up from the sofa, pacing agitatedly, his thick-heeled boots clicking on the wooden floor. "The Scotland Yard is going to lose face big time if we let a common thief do our job for us! You know, there are people saying that we're not efficient enough _and_ there have been threats of cutting back our wages." He gestured wildly with his hands, the coffee sloshed out of his mug.

Aragorn set down the newspaper and sighed. Tangling his fingers in his dark locks, he quietly stared at the coffee on the floor, contemplating on the best way to clean it up.

"Hey, Aragorn! Are you listening to me?" Boromir snapped, Aragorn guessed that he was in an excited mood today and decided that the prudent choice would be to answer.

"Yes, Inspector Boromir." Aragorn hoped that the title would be enough for Boromir to stop gripping his mug so tightly. His knuckles were turning white and they had been rather short on coffee mugs recently. Boromir was about to reply when the door swung open,

"What happened brother? I could hear you shouting outside, you're not venting on Aragorn again are

you?" A raven haired young man ducked underneath the door banister, smiling cheerfully at the room's two occupants.

"Faramir! I'm glad that you're back, have you read this morning's headline?" Boromir waved the already abused newspaper frantically.

Faramir calmly peeled off his dark overcoat and hung it beside Aragorn's woollen cape. "Oh that? Of course, I just came back from Dulwich picture gallery actually, and found this." Faramir procured a calling card from his pocket with a gloved hand, sliding it across the table to Aragorn.

Laying aside is coffee mug temporarily, the young man took a good look at the card. It was printed on good quality paper, cream coloured and heavy. Large, ornate letters decorated the card, 'the Hobbit'.

"The border's changed." Aragorn remarked, pointing at the gold leaf decorations. Faramir leaned in, "Really? I didn't notice."

"The changes are miniscule, if you look at it closely, the clover at the corner has been replaced by a lilac."

"Oh, you're right!"

"I don't see how that will help us figure out 'the Hobbit''s identity. We have a bunch of those cards already." Boromir scowled, but couldn't help but join Faramir.

"True," Aragorn took a sip of his newly-warmed coffee, "but the fact that the border changed means that 'the Hobbit' had visited a printing press recently, most likely ran by someone who knows him. If we can locate that press, then we would be a step closer to finding out his identity."

Faramir clapped,"As expected of Aragorn! You're as sharp as usual."

"But how will we find that out?" Boromir interrupted, "he could have gotten them printed anywhere."

"'the Hobbit' isn't just any common thief, if the calling cards are any indication, then he must be a gentleman." Aragorn set down his mug, savouring the last vestiges of his drink.

"A well educated one at that too," Faramir chipped in, "the paintings returned were all in their original condition, he certainly knew how to properly handle them."

Boromir nodded uncertainly, his dark brows furrowed, "That would make sense, and if he knew the proper handling techniques, then it's likely that he belongs to some sort of club, or is an artist by profession."

Aragorn smiled, "Exactly my thoughts, Inspector. Now all that's left is for us to comb through those places. How many gentleman's clubs did you say there were in London, Faramir?"

Faramir cringed, "No less than two dozen, Aragorn."

Beside him, Boromir swore and flung his mug on the floor.

Aragorn was already getting the rag.

Sam ran a hand through his curly head of hair. Murmuring soothing noises to the horses, he checked his watch yet again. It would be another hour until Frodo would come out. Rubbing his gloved hands, Sam fished for a piece of apple in the saddlebags to give to the already restless horses.

Frodo did his best to stifle a yawn as the speaker droned on. He had already stopped paying attention long before, and was now doing his best not to nod off. Judging by the obvious lack of enthusiasm from the other gentlemen, Frodo guessed that they were doing the same. Beside him, Pippin was already asleep. Merry nudged him with his elbow.

"How are you doing, cousin?"

Frodo gave a weak smile, "Just barely awake, I think Pippin's snoring."

Merry gave a chuckle, "Well, I don't blame him, I did not know that art critics were this boring Frodo."

Frodo smiled wryly, "Usually, it's a lot more noisy; it is just the speaker today."

Merry grinned, opening his mouth to say something.

A scattered round of applause interrupted the conversation, signifying the end of the lecture. Frodo picked up more than a few sighs of relief as the next speaker stood up.

A balding middle aged man cleared this throat, "Good morning, gentlemen. I'm sure you've all read this morning's headline, regarding the retrieval of the stolen Gerontius painting."

A wave of hushed whispers coursed through the room, Old Noakes raised his hand for silence. "That aside, I have brought a painting from a colleague of mine, one he is considering of submitting to the Salon de Paris, I would like everyone's opinion on this painting."

With a dramatic whoosh, the painting was unveiled and exclamations rang throughout the room. Frodo sat up a little straighter trying to catch a glimpse of the painting over the sea of heads. It was a somber portrait depicting a young girl sitting primly with her curls carefully arranged. Frodo slouched back down into his comfortable chair, an action that did not go unnoticed by Old Noakes.

"Mr. Baggins, may I have your opinion on this painting?" Frodo could almost taste the mocking edge in his tone. Old Noakes had never liked him. Beside him, Merry gave him a warning glare; Old Noakes was cranky and ill tempered, but he was a highly respected art critic, having critiqued paintings submissions for Salon de Paris for many years. Frodo shook off the warning and stood up, the room was instantly silent. Frodo allowed himself a half smile. Straightening his back, Frodo started, "I think that this painting shows great technical skill, which is especially demonstrated by the careful blend of colours." Old Noakes nodded approvingly, Merry sighed, relieved.

"However," Frodo continued, locking his eyes with Old Noakes, "this is no masterpiece, the painting is dead." Gasps ran out, along with indignant murmurs and accusing glares. Old Noakes's face turned from pink to read, and from red to purple. A vein popped in his forehead as he raised an accusing finger at Frodo, his dry lips mouthing words he could not speak. Frodo ignored the commotion, his confidence was soaring, the critic's seat was where he belonged. "Indeed, this painting fills the requirements for the Salon de Paris, however, it is too bland, it's lifeless, there's no energy or vigor, no feelings communicated through it." Frodo took a deep breath, staring straight at Old Noakes, "In short, it is not alive."

Old Noakes sputtered, his lips moving almost mechanically before his brain could find the words, "Get out," he pointed a finger at the door, "get out, what would a youngster like you know about great works? You are nothing but an impertinent brat living in the shadow of your uncle!" Old Noakes panted, his visage livid. Frodo bowed coolly, and walked towards the door, his composure calm.

"Wait," Old Noakes called as Frodo placed his hand on the door handle, Frodo turned, but did not remove his hand. "Then what do you consider a masterpiece?"

Frodo allowed himself a wry grin, "I think that Took's paintings will one day become masterpieces." Exclamations of surprise and shock circled around the room, Pippin stirred in his seat, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

Old Noakes's eyes bulged, "That brat's? What's so good about his paintings? They're just a jumble of colours and messy brushwork. His paintings look like that..."

"'A bucket of paint was flung on the canvas'", Frodo cut in, "Don't you think that statement is a little too overused?" With a thin smile, he pushed down the brass handle and exited the room.

"Mr. Frodo! What happened? You are early today." Sam rushed forward, handing Frodo his cane and cape. Frodo took them wordlessly, and boarded the carriage without taking his hat, leaving Sam dumbfounded.

"Head back to Bag End, Sam," Frodo shook his head violently, dislodging his perfectly oiled curls.

Sam sighed,he could tell it was one of those bad days, "Yes, sir."

Frodo pressed his heated cheek against the cool glass, numbly staring at the scenery rolling by. Dingy grey streets gradually changed to green hills as the noise of the city faded behind them. Sam reined in the horses.

"We are here, Mr. Frodo," Sam opened the carriage door, "Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo turned from the window, distracted, "Huh?"

"We are here, Mr. Frodo." Sam repeated, holding out a plain velvet hat.

"Oh," Frodo blinked. He took the offered hat and descended from the carriage without help. Stepping away from the vehical, Frodo breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of fresh grass and flowers. "Lilacs, Sam?"

"Yes, Mr. Frodo, I planted them last year, they smell lovely, don't they?"

"Hmmm, I like snowdrops better, they're hardier and easier to care for." Frodo scanned the gardens covered with small shrubs dotted with pink and purple flowers just beginning to bloom.

"I will be sure to plant some in the fall. How do you like the China roses?" Sam asked as started to lead the horses to the stable.

Frodo peered at the still green buds that lined the brick paved walkway. "You certainly planted a lot of them, Parsons' Pink China right?"

Sam grinned, glad that the flowers could take his master's mind away from whatever was bothering him. "That's right, nothing'll look prettier than Bag End in the summer when they bloom. Let's invite Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin for tea then."

At the mention of Pippin's name, Frodo's face fell, he turned towards the door without so much as a word.

"Mr. Frodo?"

"I'll be going in, Sam."

"Wait, I'll open the door." Sam left the reins and pushed open the heavy oak door. He bowed, allowing Frodo to enter. "Rose should have a pot of tea ready for you, I'll be back to prepare some desserts as soon as I have taken care of the horses." With that, Sam rushed back.

"Mr. Frodo, welcome back." A maid dressed in long tan skirts bowed, her hands wringing her apron nervously. Frodo smiled kindly, "Thank you Rose, are you getting used to Bag End?"

"Oh, oh of course, Mr. Frodo," Rose replied, startled, "I will be sure to do my best from now on. Thank you for you kindness."

Frodo was touched by her sincerity."No need to be so formal Rose... you are Sam's friend after all."

"Well then, I will be upstairs." Frodo handed her his hat and cape before climbing the impressive staircase that swirled down from the second floor to the main lobby. Everything in Bag End was impressive, a constant reminder of his uncle's fortune, from the expensive glass chandeliers to the delicate porcelain cups from Munich. Frodo felt suffocated in the immense luxury. His bedroom was his sanctuary, where he could escape from the dazzling wealth.

Frodo collapsed into his bed, lined with fluffy pillows and newly washed sheets that smelled of lavender water. Rolling out of his bed, Frodo pushed the pink curtains back, allowing the bright afternoon light to flood in from the window.

With practiced movements, Frodo started cleaning the pen nibs lying scattered over his desk. His eyes found the few pen and ink sketches he had done of Bag End when he had first arrived. Sketches that could never turn into paintings. Anger surged through him, Old Noakes accused him of living in his uncle's shadow, critics couldn't appreciate art, and people stole artwork that should have rightfully been there for all to admire. With his anger fuelling him, and he grabbed the sketches, meaning to tear them to pieces, then cursing his own weakness for not being able to do so.

A knock at the door startled him, Sam's voice carried through, "Mr. Frodo, sir?"

Frodo took a deep breath to calm himself, "Come in, Sam."

Sam entered the room, his eyes landed on Frodo's dishevelled desk, but did not make any remarks. He understood his master too well to ask him.

"You have visitors, Mr. Meriadoc and Mr. Peregrin."

"Show them in," Frodo waved his hand dismissively.

"Should I invite them for dinner?"

"Yes, give them something to snack on while I change." Frodo quickly walked over to his wardrobe, his attention distracted with picking out fresh clothes for dinner, his anger momentarily quelled. "Bring out the good wine uncle Bilbo bought from France, the new bottle."

"Yes, Mr. Frodo." Sam bowed, his coattails flying behind him as he left the room.

"Mr. Meriadoc and Mr. Peregrin, welcome." Sam bowed, holding open the door for the guests.

"Good evening to you too, Sam." Pippin grinned as he bounced in. Merry followed behind, acknowledging the greeting with a smile and a nod.

"Ah, Bag End gets prettier and prettier every time I come." Pippin exclaimed as he spun around the lobby, arms flung out as if to embrace the house and all its inhabitants.

"Where is Frodo, Sam?" Merry inquired, ever the gentleman.

"Mr. Frodo is up in his room," Sam closed the door with a loud thump, turning around he started, "He's-"

Pippin was already halfway up the stairs, "I will go see him," he called, "Come on, Merry!"

"Be right there!" His cousin replied, taking the steps two at a time.

Sam rushed after them, "Wait, Mr. Pippin! Mr. Merry! Mr. Frodo said that he was-"

"Frodo!" Pippin launched himself through the bedroom door at the gentleman, enveloping him in a bear hug. Frodo, clothed only in trousers an a linen shirt with undone buttons, flailed helplessly under Pippin's strong arms.

Merry chuckled, "Take it easy, Pippin, remember, we just saw Frodo this morning." Pippin pulled back, grinning at his breathless cousin.

"Thank goodness that you're alright! Merry was really worried about you after you just left like that." Pippin patted Frodo's shoulder before skipping to Sam, who was panting as he leaned against the doorway.

"Sam, what's for dinner today?

Frodo watched as Pippin bombarded Sam with questions of mushrooms and potatoes. His mood lightened with the carefree laughter. Beside him Merry smiled, "I'm glad that you're feeling better Frodo, I was worried that you'd be upset by what Old Noakes said."

Frodo smiled back, "So you and Pippin came here to cheer me up?"

"You could put it like that, or, you could say that we were looking for the best mushrooms in England."

Frodo laughed heartily, wrapping his arm around Merry's broad shoulders, "Then consider yourself lucky that Sam prepared some of those very mushrooms tonight."

"With taters?"

"Of course!"

"Ah, these mushrooms really are amazing Frodo, you can only find good mushrooms like these in Yorkshire." Pippin exclaimed over his plate, his mouth stuffed with mushrooms and bacon.

"Peregrin Took, watch your table manners. What would the ladies say if they saw you like this?" Merry admonished mockingly.

"I'm glad that you like these mushrooms, Pippin. Sam had made them with utmost care." Frodo smiled, now fully dressed, as he swirled the pale yellow liquid in his crystal cut goblet.

"It must be tough on you, Sam. You even cook, you're responsible for so many jobs." Pippin remarked, taking a sip from his wine glass.

Merry nodded in agreement, "You should hire a few more servants, Frodo. With your fortune, it is not a problem. Bag End is too big for a butler and one maid to manage."

Frodo smiled, emptying his glass of cider, he never could quite get used to wine. "It's not a matter of money, I just like to have my own space."

Sam nodded knowingly, "And I assure you Mr. Merry, that Rose and I manage very well on our own."

Merry looked doubtful, but shrugged, "Ah well, if that's what you want to do."

"Hey Sam! Can I have some of that cider too?" Pippin called from beside Merry, waving his empty glass.

Sam quickly walked over, "Is the wine not to your tastes, Mr. Pippin?"

"Not at all," Pippin shook his head vigorously, "the wine is really good, but I just like plain food better, you know?"

Merry sighed, "You really haven't got the air of a gentleman, Pippin. Your tastes too plebeian to be what one would expect from a wealthy young gentleman.

Pippin took a large gulp of the newly poured cider, "I have no desire to develop any such airs, Merry. I may have the birthright of a gentleman, but I have the heart of a simple craftsman." Pippin threw his head back and laughed.

"Simple is a bit of an understatement, Pippin," Frodo dabbed at his mouth with a silk napkin, "you are a painter, and I think that with a little professional training, you could become a master like your great great grandfather."

Pippin laughed even harder, "Frodo, you jest, don't make a fool of me. Gerontius is beyond my league."

"Pippin, I am not making jokes. I am serious." Frodo stood up, slamming his hands on the table. Sam jumped as the cutlery rattled. Pippin's smile froze. "I wasn't joking this morning when I said that your paintings could turn into masterpieces, Merry heard my words, didn't you Merry?" Merry nodded uncertainly under Frodo's intense gaze. "Pippin, you have talent, your paintings, nevermind what those old fools say, are spectacular. They're alive and moving Pippin, I can _feel_ the emotions they are conveying." Frodo pushed aside his chair, ignoring the screech is made on the floor. He paced agitatedly over to his cousin, his eyes bright "I can sponsor you Pippin, for an education in the Acad_é_mie in Paris, I have connections and money, I can send you there to be trained." Frodo panted excitedly, wringing his hands together, "You could become one of the masters in Europe Pippin! With your talent, you could! What do you say cousin?"

Pippin shrank back from his cousin, holding up both hands as if retreating from a wild animal. His elbow knocked over the glass of cider, Sam quickly dabbed at the spreading yellow stain. Frodo did not seem to notice, his face was lit up like a child's on Christmas morning, a child who had just been told by his parents that Santa really does exist.

The brightness of Frodo's eyes scared Pippin, he smiled nervously, "Um, no thank you. I just want to be a simple artist making his living off selling a few paintings. I don't really want to.."

"Don't you understand Pippin? I'm telling you, you have talent, you should make use of it!" Frodo roared, his fist raised as if to smash the porcelain plate. Pippin scampered back as much as he could in his seat.

Sam rushed to Frodo, taking hold of his arm, "Mr. Frodo! Please calm down!"

Merry stood up behind Frodo, "Frodo, stop." His voice was eerily calm. Frodo slowly lowered his arm.

"You are scaring Pippin, Frodo." He placed a gentle hand on Frodo's shoulder. Frodo took a shuddering breath. His eyes lost their brightness. Pippin was still trembling in his seat.

"I'm sorry, I got ahead of myself. Sam, refill Pippin's glass."

Pippin stood up, "There is no need Frodo, we should be leaving, right Merry?" Merry did not miss the almost desperate note in this voice.

"Yes, we should get going, Sam, if you could get our hats and capes." Sam bowed and left the dining room.

"But.." Frodo started.

"You can go, Pippin." Pippin nodded and all but ran out of the dining room.

"Frodo, I would like a word with you." Merry beckoned.

Frodo walked Merry to the front door, Pippin was already inside the carriage. Sam was standing outside.

"What is it Merry?" Frodo asked.

Merry turned around, "Frodo, you need to calm down, you really scared Pippin."

"I, I was just, I mean, Pippin has so much talent he.." Frodo stuttered, suddenly uncertain of his words.

"Pippin is an adult, he can choose his own path Frodo," Merry pursed his lips, "I understand your sentiments, but please, control yourself."

Frodo opened his mouth to speak, but Merry interrupted him, "I need to go, think about what I said. Until next time." With a formal bow, Merry turned and walked down the cobblestone steps.

Frodo watched numbly from the door as the carriage drew away. Sam closed the door, "Mr. Frodo? Mr. Frodo, are you alright?"

Frodo shook himself out of his daze, "Yes, Sam."

"Perhaps you should go to bed now." Sam gently suggested.

"Yes," Frodo rubbed his forehead, "it's been a long day, I'm just.." Frodo shook his head, "they don't understand Sam, they can't understand this, this frustration. This frustration of not being able to..."

"You should get some rest, Mr. Frodo." Sam said soothingly, "Rose will clear away the dishes and then maybe make you some hot tea."

"Yes, alright," Frodo nodded absentmindedly, "tell her to bring it up to my room."

After Sam had taken his master up to his bed, he returned to the pantry, where Rose was cleaning the dishes. He took an envelope from his pocket, and stared at the red wax seal stamped with an ornate "G" that looked more like a decoration than a letter. He had been meaning to give it to his master, but perhaps now was not the right time. Putting the letter back in his coat pocket, he started to dry the dishes.

In the clear moonlight an old man walked through the slums of London, he did not cast looks of disgust at the muck accumulating on his boots, instead, humming a merry tune, he lit a match and held it to the end of a colourful paper roll. Sparks instantly erupted, crackling. A group of children who were asleep poked their heads out from under a threadbare blanket. Scrambling up from the ground, they rushed towards the sparks, like moths drawn to a flame. The old man kept humming and walking, and the children followed him. His long beard and grey cloak flapping in the wind. Under the bright moonlight the sparks from the paper roll kept glowing, and the children kept following, as if led by the pied piper.


End file.
